


A Cold Space Alone

by JD_Riley



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, Detectives, Knotting, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Murder, Nihilism, Omega Verse, Omegaverse, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Slow Burn, Smut, Thriller, Violence, nihilistic angst, police drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-04 22:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10291295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD_Riley/pseuds/JD_Riley
Summary: There's an assassin haunting the streets of New York's second-largest city who has a particular calling card--scenting his victims with his own pheromones, making him flashy, bold, and perhaps a bit overly dramatic.  At least that's what some people think.  People like Detective Fletcher Schilling, who has just about had it up to here with not only the killer's theatrics, but also his latest almost-victim's nihilism.Damian McCoy literally wrote the book on the favorite hit man the Polish mob sends after their more high profile enemies and with its publication, he put himself at the wrong end of a silencer.  If he could just get to the bottom of why he's alive--then maybe he could help the grumpy Detective who insists on bothering him.





	1. Chapter 1

He'd picked up this investigation from his now retired predecessor and he was starting to think Barry's reluctance to move forward with it was a hidden act of malice against him. As the lead detective on it, Fletcher was supposed to have had all the files memorized. As it was, there just hadn't been enough time. But there was one person who knew everything about the case—the one person who couldn't speak.

His eyes unfocused, blurring the slushy gray tones of the city street while he took another drag from his cigarette, holding it in his lungs until it curled in loose strings from his lips. He let the rest of it out and it floated away from him with the visible water particles of his breath in the freezing air. The hotel only had one entrance and he was standing in front of it. He let his eyes focus back into reality and trace the multitudes of mixed and mashed footprints that marred the snow that still coated the sidewalk. He hated winter. He hated the cold. Most of all, he hated that everything seemed so much harder to do in the bleak gray months. Even getting up out of bed after he'd turned thirty had become a near impossibility in the winter.

“Detective?”

He turned around, letting the cigarette dangle from his lip.

“Schilling,” he grunted. “Fletcher Schilling.”

The lab technician jotted down his name on her file, huddled in her puffy coat with bright eyes. She must not have been thirty yet, he thought glumly. “Thanks,” she beamed, “Are you finished with the scene?”

“Are you?” he asked.

She held up her camera. She was the forensic photographer. “I've clicked all the clicks that need clicking, Detective.”

“Just call me Fletcher.”

She put out her hand. “Judy.”

He looked at it, bare with pink fingertips in the frigid air. He took off his glove, enveloping her hand in his and taking care to shake it long enough to warm it, dipping his two fingers into her sleeve and touching her wrist gently. He watched her blush when he did it and felt almost vindicated for being such a snooping bastard. When she pulled away, he pulled his glove back on immediately, unwilling to let her watch him intrude into her personal life. If it had been summer, it would have been easy. Winter was hard. Difficult. Scents were hidden by coats and hats and the way the cold made it hard for the nose to pick things out of the mess in the air. If he wanted something, he had to go out of his way to make sure he got it.

Only after she'd retreated to her car and pulled away did he wander back in the building toward the elevator after having stomped his cigarette into the snow. He yanked his gloves from his hands and after he was alone in the elevator did he press his fingers to his nose and breathe in her scent.

 _Ah. Just what I thought._ He let his mouth curl at the edges in appreciation of that sweet Omega fragrance he loved. _Judy_ , he reminded himself, making certain that he remembered that name so he could have the florist write it on the next set of roses he sent out. Despite his insistence to himself that he was getting old, he didn't seem to subscribe to the idea that _one_ Omega was enough for anyone. And even if they were already set up with their respective mates, it was never bad to have made one blush. Ever.

The elevator doors opened and he stepped into the hard wood hallway and turned toward the crime scene, stepping into it without any flourish that would announce him. That, he'd noticed from many of the other Alpha detectives, was atypical. As he moved, he again took stock of where the evidence markers were even as the lab was packing everything up, having made all their documentation. He replayed the scenario he'd put together in his mind one more time as he pulled out his notes and flipped through.

The would-be assassin entered via the unlocked hotel suite door, walking through the foyer and opening the door to the study. He took a few steps into the room, taking care to notice the markers on the floor. He formed a gun with the fingers of his right hand, pointed, and “shot” twice toward the chair at the desk. After having done so, he approached it, moving around the left side and facing the chair. Here was where he stopped, the “gun” shape of his fingers coming up to stroke under his bottom lip.

_Why not finish the job? You're right here. He's slumped in the chair. There are two rounds in his stomach. He's not moving. Just pop him in the temple. Why not? You've got plenty of time, why play this one fast and loose while the others were decisive? You're a professional. And this isn't a game._

But the hit man wasn't in his head to answer those questions. He was loose somewhere in the Nickel City, taking cover after his failed attempt at murder. Fletcher looked unfeeling toward the congealing pools of blood on the leather seat of the chair and the crusting streaks down the back. The poor bastard hadn't even died. He'd sat in his pooling blood, most likely conscious when the assassin had scented him, right where he'd scented the rest of them. A cocky streak right on his forehead.

_Is that why you didn't put one in his temple? You didn't want to chance getting your pretty little wrists bloody?_

He couldn't help it but admit that, from what he'd read about this hit man, the reasoning was apt. As he roved his eyes over the hotel, he took care to make a mental list of the inventory. He wandered to the door and found one of the officers who was keeping the scene secure floating outside in the foyer.

“Jenson, right?”

The officer turned and replied in the affirmative.

“I'm gonna clear you to give this guy's stuff, his clothes, to him in the hospital. It's gonna be fine, we won't need them. When he's discharged, he's gonna need something to wear.” It was the least he could do, he thought heavily. The mob tries to kill him and he's stuck naked in a crap hospital gown until they tell you to leave without any of your own clothes. Because usually, the cops have them.

He wiped his face with his hand and blinked his tired eyes while he shuffled into the kitchenette part of the suite. The victim was a writer. If he hadn't already known that particular fact, he would have been intrigued by the almost-empty bottle of _Black Velvet_ that was sitting on the counter and even more-so by the fact that there was only one tumbler found sitting on the desk near the laptop in the study. Knowing the fact, however, made finding the second bottle, this one full, in the man's luggage completely unsurprising and even expected.

Writers. The drunken liars.

But this one had meddled just a hair too close to the truth. He dragged his heels on the carpet while he walked out of the kitchenette and toward the coffee table where a copy of the writer's book lay. He looked down at the cover and mentally set another reminder in his head to buy one. And to get it signed while the lucky piece of shit was still breathing for the moment. It was really too bad, he thought, that such investigative talent had been wasted on writing a book rather than doing actual police work. If one was able to write a book so closely accurate about a particular assassin and his ties to the Polish mafia that said dramatic and stylish hit man got _personal_ about it, then one was most definitely wasting his skills with writing.

It had started snowing when Fletcher emerged from the hotel. The cold wind coursed through the city from the west, bitter from its long journey over the vastness of Lake Erie. The light gray clouds that hovered low over the grime and grit he existed within tried to apologize for the wind's bite by dropping pretty little white gifts that caught in his short brown hair and tickled his cheeks above his five o'clock shadow that he kept just to keep in line with his stereotype. The joke was lost on most, and he looked more like a bum than like a noir detective. He shrugged his shoulders before he got into his car, letting the snow that had accumulated gently drift and flutter their way to the pavement.

The writer wasn't going to be out of surgery until at least the middle of the night. It didn't take a genius to figure that two abdominal gunshot wounds was going to be an all-day affair so he drove until he could see the gray of the lake to his right, cruising on the 5 with the seat warmer on under his ass.

Barry would be home. He always was. He was retired, what else was there for him to do but sit around, watch daytime television, and think about all the cases he didn't solve? Fletcher didn't want to think about how it might be to someday retire. Especially if this flamboyant and obnoxious phantom was still trapezing through the dark corners of both the city and his mind. It had to be Hell for the older Alpha to have been handed a goddamn watch and told he was a great detective even while the mob was laughing in their ivory towers and sending out their sick pet to eliminate their elite enemies. Realistically, the case was the reason it was getting harder to let the state's congressmen plan overnight excursions to Buffalo, the department preferring that they take their high profile asses (along with their high profile whores) to stay somewhere else. Barry was off the hook for it—he wasn't.

The 5 took him closer to the shoreline in Hamburg and he took a left across from the beach access, cruising down the quiet suburban road until he pulled into Barry's drive, his dirty slush-streaked Subaru close behind Barry's rarely-driven Chevy. When he got out, the door on the side of the house opened and Barry toasted him with what looked like a glass of cranberry juice. That shit was supposed to be good for old men, he thought.

“Don't you have better things to do than stand around waiting for me to come by to ask about your fucking old cases?” Fletcher growled as he trudged through the snow to the door. “You can't even shovel your walk?”

While he slipped his boots off by the door in the mudroom, Barry replied, “Old crusties like me can't risk the shovel.” He tapped his chest. “The ticker might give and that's a hell of a way to go after you've taken three bullets in your career.”

“Yeah, lay off that one,” he said, wandering into the kitchen and putting his coat on one of the chairs. “You've milked that story for all you could and then some. I came here for a reason and that tale wasn't part of it.”

“Okay,” Barry said, leaning against one of his counters, “I'll bite.”

“That writer you hated just got two in the guts in his hotel. He was supposed to do a book signing on Elmwood two days from now and was meeting with some sources who've now been given police escorts.”

Barry didn't smile and for that, Fletcher gave him a lot of credit. The writer had been a real thorn in the detective's side for a long time. “So he must not have been too far off.” He sipped his cranberry juice. “You know, for being a little prick, he's got talent.”

“That's what I was thinking.”

“No, I mean, I read it.”

Fletcher raised his eyebrows before he opened Barry's fridge and pulled out a Coke, popping it open with one finger. “Does he have a good reason to get popped?”

“By the mob?” The older Alpha shook his head. “No. He's deep in with that assassin, though. He didn't name any names but it's pretty obvious from the independent investigation that he's probably got a few in mind. Or _had_ a few in mind.”

“He's still alive for the moment,” he mentioned, sipping the foam out of the top of his can. “He's gonna wake up with a hell of an upset stomach but he _is_ still living.”

“Ah. A warning then.” Barry frowned. “But why? Why would he just give the writer a warning when the others were clear kills?”

Fletcher shrugged. “Not a mob hit, it's personal. He doesn't want to kill him because...” He pinched his thumb and forefinger in front of himself and stared at it like it could give him an answer.

Barry shrugged. “It's intentional. It has to be. He's too professional for this. But the drama is what he lives for. I mean, there's a reason that that little asshole calls him what he does. The damn book is titled that way just to get his attention. If you ask me, the nosy idiot got exactly what he asked for.” He scoffed. “If you want to borrow it, it's in the living room.”

Fletcher took the offer, walking into the living room and picking up the thick work off the couch cushion, turning it to the front.

_Damian McCoy. Primadonna: A Cold Killer in the Queen City._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, actually, back at work so you guys aren't going to be spoiled by double updates this go 'round. But, I am part time for now so my broken wrist can heal and I'll have time to write fairly frequently.
> 
> Hopefully we're all up for another ride on the detective drama train. Choo Choo.
> 
> See you next update.


	2. Chapter 2

They tell you sometimes that under anesthesia, you don't dream. A total crock of shit, he thought as his eyes cracked open and a shooting pain rocked through his belly. The dream had been full and all too convincing, his dream self even doing him the courtesy of being drunk as he wandered down a hot country back road, running into the same black viper with every direction he turned. Not that such a dream was unexpected. It was just that he'd hoped he wouldn't have had any. Not that he didn't love dreaming. He'd just hoped for the blissful promise of nonexistence. Just to try it on. Or maybe...maybe for keeps.

The nurse who came by was blurry and he had to blink several times just to stumble out of his nonfunctioning mouth that he thought she was very attractive. He thought that she must get that all the time, being so damn pretty in a place where they were all just waking up after a hard bout of surgery. She asked him how his stomach felt and after his slurred response that it hurt informed him that she was going to give him some Dilaudid. It sounded familiar but he couldn't place the name until the fingertips on both hands became warm and numb-ish.

_Ah. Like legal heroin._

Unfortunately, it didn't matter. It did nothing to stop the horrible aching pain in his stomach and he lay in misery, drifting in and out of consciousness while the pretty nurses shuffled around him. He didn't remember how he got upstairs, nor did he remember how he'd gotten on some channel playing children's cartoons. It was night time but he thought that was strange. Surely it took _time_ for them to have performed surgery. It had been dark when he'd called the ambulance. Surely it should be day time?

_You idiot. It's been twenty-four hours since you picked up the phone._

He wanted to laugh but he was certain that would be a terrible idea. He vaguely remembered a nurse telling him not to clench too hard. So he sat. Or lay, rather, on what the nurses called a “cart” and what he would have called a gurney. Perhaps there were subtle differences that he was unaware of that made the imagery less...morgue-ish. He was in terrible pain but he stared straight ahead at some point under the television screen while some boy named Steven helped his colorful friends on some quest or another. He could only marvel at how completely and utterly _stoned_ he felt. His whole sense of self and time had been altered, almost as if he were existing just a little too far to the left. Just a _tad_.

How long had the surgery taken? Which of his organs were damaged? Was there still a chance that the Fates held his string to their blade? Although a compelling thought, he found that he could simply not become unsettled. Perhaps it was the remnants of the anesthesia. Perhaps it was the Dilaudid. He didn't know and frankly, there wasn't much in the world worth getting unsettled about anyway. Not even getting shot.

Flashes of memory came after a while, showing him the nice desk at the hotel. His lap top was in front of him with the research notes for a new book open on the screen. It was going to be a big one, he thought with a small giddy flutter. It was supposed to be even bigger than his story on the Primadonna but it was only a fledgling work. There was so much more research to do and so many more sources to pump for information. His publisher would be ecstatic. But...but he'd heard the hotel door open which was strange. He didn't get up but his ears had perked. Perhaps it was his Alpha agent who'd used her pheromones on the ditsy hotel clerk to convince him to let her have a key. But...it hadn't been.

He'd stood up when the figure in black entered the room but that was all he got to do before there was only that horrible ripping pain that had sent him back into his chair with his hands disbelievingly over two wounds in his belly. He'd leaned back, his mouth stupidly hanging open while he was approached. He supposed he should have felt almost honored when he'd had his hair pulled violently back and a warm pale wrist had streaked across his forehead. After all, he probably wasn't getting paid to put a few bullets into Damian McCoy. He was nothing. A writer. Not a cop. Someone the cops had decided was a waste of time busybody with nothing better to do than make their lives harder.

Well, he thought. That's what they get. A writer isn't bound by regulations and bureaucracy. He is bound only by his contracts—and this contract required some very strenuous detective work. If the police wanted to be jealous, they had Damian's permission to be that way. Although, he thought again, there was a reason he was sitting in a hospital bed after hours of emergency surgery and the former detective who'd worked the case was sitting pretty in his retirement.

_Because I did my job._

A nurse slipped into his room to check his vitals but she almost appeared to be on her way home, wearing her coat with her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Are you warm enough? I can get you another blanket,” she told him with a charming smile.

He blinked at her dumbly.

“I apologize, you don't seem quite lucid yet,” she stated, still smiling but with a sympathetic tilt. “The drugs can make you pretty loopy.”

“Oh,” he managed. “I would like...a blanket, if you please.”

She disappeared for a little while and came back, spreading a warm blanket over his legs expertly. “I brought this one right from the warmer.” After making sure he was quite comfortable, she stood awkwardly for a moment until he looked up at her again. “Mr. McCoy, I was wondering if you could do me a huge favor. If you can't that's okay, I get it. But...I was just in the middle of reading your book and I was planning on coming to your signing this week. Could...could you sign my copy for me?”

He couldn't help himself. For as cold a bastard as he liked to think he was, he was totally disarmed by the young nurse and he held his hands out while she rooted it out of her bag and handed him a pen.

“My name is Vicki, with an 'i,'” she supplied while he scribbled. “I'm just so enthralled by your writing and I just feel so much more empowered by your words and how beautifully you tell the facts. It really helps to dispel the myth that all of us Omegas are addle-brained and useless.” Her cheeks were pink when he handed it back to her. “You're such a great writer. I hope they catch the assassin. Maybe if they read your book, they'd get a clue. That would be a wonderful ending.”

He was fully beaming now, his chest fuzzy and warm. “It would. Perhaps in the next edition? I'll make sure to sign that version for you too.”

She laughed. “You know, you don't seem nearly as mean as they make you out to be. I was half afraid you were going to tell me to get lost.”

“Oh no,” he smiled, “I cultivate the personality to keep from getting bowled over by my publisher and by any media outlets who don't take me seriously enough just because of my gender dynamic. I've no patience for fools and I don't mind who knows it. Imagine all the Alpha cops I've had to crawl through just to get what I needed for one book.”

She rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic shudder. “They must have thought you were absolutely bonkers.”

“Ah, you've no idea. But who better to write about the only known Omega assassin in the world but the most well-known Omega true crime writer?”

She laughed again. “I like the way you think, Mr. McCoy. Now don't keep yourself awake if you feel tired, a nurse will come by and wake you up to check your pain and vitals anyway, so you might as well get some rest. I'm sure tomorrow, the police are gonna have to start talking to the _real_ expert on the case and you'll want to have had some rest.” She left with another thank you over her shoulder.

Yes, he thought, they would come and this time they would be the ones pumping _him_ for details and facts and whatever he could remember from last night. He wondered what in the hell hecould do to get a drink around here. If there was anyone he knew who could get him one. Maybe his agent could sneak him something in her purse and scowl them all off if they inquired.

_You know what Liv would say. She would tell you to take your fool head out of your ass and enjoy the Oxy they're going to give you for all this pain._

It _was_ pretty terrible, still, but he'd had Vicki to take his mind off of it until now. Now, all he had was a cartoon playing on the TV and the steady whir of these strange calf-covers that were periodically squeezing his legs. Eventually, those were going to have to come off, he thought. They were annoying as shit. As he looked at them, he felt his eyelids getting heavier so he stared up at the cartoon again, letting the image get fuzzier and fuzzier. As he did so, he tried to bring back that dream he'd been having while he was under. Despite the fact that he seemed doomed by a viper, he had been enjoying the warmth of the summer-time weather. A nice summer day was a nice summer day no matter how many times he ran into the same snippy little black viper.

The small hospital room faded and warbled around him and small voices in his head began talking periodically, chiming nonsense phrases while strange blips of images moved like an old projector reel. He heard them, he saw them, and he let them take over. It was useless to fight. He wouldn't be able to choose the dream or the destination this time. The mysteries of the mind were, to him, a matter of simple coincidence anyway. He could only welcome the pit of imaginings and surrealist Kafkaesque imagery that would take him far away from the cruddy streets and endless pain of existence. His dreams were at least an enjoyable byproduct of life, and it was dreaming he thought he would miss the most in the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. It would not quite make it to 2000 words. Such is life.
> 
> If there are any comments or concerns, if you are interested in the story, or you think this one's a flop (hey, maybe it is, I don't know) be sure to let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

Fletcher hated hospitals in the same way he hated winter. They could be described with the same adjectives. Cold. Bleak. Morbid. He wandered into the Omega wing while flipping his badge up for the nurses at the station. When he leaned on the chest-high intake desk, he was absolutely charmed by the fact that he could smell all three of the nurses and they were all delightfully scented as Omegas. He imagined that they were often running around so quickly that it was easier for them to get worked up. Advantageous for him, though. He flashed them all a winning smile.

“Ladies, we are looking very lovely today. I'm looking for the only sucker in this joint who has an armed escort sitting outside his door.” When they pointed him in the correct direction, he went after giving the cutest of them a small wink. It was amazing what such a small gesture could do when he wasn't putting out as much scent as in the summer. They were less likely to get crabby about him walking through the Omega wing and more likely to make sure that he wasn't bothered too much while he was asking the questions that needed answers.

The room had a sweet scent lingering inside but it was tinged with something metallic that stuck in his nose and reminded him faintly of exhaust. He'd smelled it before mostly working as a beat cop in the inner city. It was caused by whatever happened when an Omega's body metabolized narcotics and it was something an observant Alpha would never be able to forget. For whatever reason, it was rare for the fair dynamics to become addicted to certain drugs but not impossible, allowing for busts in those sections of the city to be extremely successful and usually few and far between. This Omega probably needed a few more painkillers if the scowl on his pretty features was anything to go by.

Barry hadn't mentioned the fact that Damian McCoy, pain in the ass that he was, was actually intensely attractive with jet black hair in a short undercut along with serious strong brows and a full-lipped mouth that Fletcher could only imagine would have tasted so good that he could have ignored that odd tang in his scent. Even in nothing but a hospital gown, reduced to an almost naked and humiliated version of himself, he exuded a demanding vibrancy. Although Fletcher hadn't considered himself overly confident in the investigation thus far, he felt any sort of young hope in the matter wither inside his heart when he saw the way the young writer looked at him with absolute loathing. This was one Omega that was not to be won by flattery. This one could be won only through a strong resolve and the only trait that really mattered when it came to detective work—competency.

“Mr. McCoy, you're looking surprisingly alive this morning. Detective Fletcher Schilling, you can call me Fletcher, or, if you end up hating me, you can call me Fletch. In a twist of fate, I've come to with questions for an investigation in which you know more than I do. With that in mind, let's stick to the particulars of the other night and then I'll make the leap to read your book for the rest. How's that sound?” He didn't bother with a smile. He didn't want McCoy to think he was joking in the slightest when he'd said any of it. He pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket and clicked it while he got out the notebook. “It was eleven-fifteen when you called the EMTs to your location. How long do you think the suspect was inside your suite?”

McCoy's voice was exactly how Fletcher had thought it would be. Sure and strong, it held no waver or marks of hesitation. He was certain in himself and his response. “At most a minute.” He offered nothing else.

With a small grin, Fletcher wrote down the information and noted that this was to be done the hard way. He mentally slapped Barry for having stonewalled the tempestuous author so many times. “And bare with me, Mr. McCoy, but could you walk me through exactly what happened after your attacker came into the suite?”

His scowl lightened for just a second and then returned but this time, he was thinking. With his eyes focused intently on the wall opposite his bed, he spoke. “I was sitting at the desk. I was working on research notes for my new project and I'd just gotten off the phone with my friend, Georgia Attinson. She was trying to give me details on her trip to Chicago. When I hung up, I heard the door open. I'd thought it was Olivia, my agent. I don't know why I thought that.” He shook his head and leaned carefully back until he was laying tilted up by the bed. “The door to the room I was in was open but he came around the side of it and he was pulling the gun out like it was in a holster or maybe in his belt. I stood up because I was surprised. I didn't quite have the thought that he was who he was. I don't know what I thought. He shot me twice and it was...” His eyes glazed and he stopped talking.

Fletcher didn't mind the pause as it helped him keep up with his notes but he couldn't let the poor guy get trapped in a single moment in time forever, especially not one in which he was in pain. He leaned a bit where he stood. “Catching a few slugs is never a gas, that's certain. Never had one that didn't bury themselves in Kevlar so I gotta be honest, you've got one on me. Two, if I'm being fair about it.”

McCoy didn't look at him. “It was like nothing I've ever felt.”

“You know, they say few things are worse. Some people say getting one to the knee can give it a run for its money but how many of those people have been shot in both?” He thought he saw a glimmer of a smile pass through McCoy's face but maybe it was just wishful thinking on his part. “After he shot you, or before, whichever, did you just so happen to get a look at him?”

“No. Or...not really. He was in all black and it was like his turtle neck came up and stopped right below his eyes. He had short hair. Dirty blonde. And icy eyes.”

Fletcher moved so he could lean against the wall. “He was only half concerned about his identity.”

McCoy snorted. “If he thought he was at all vulnerable, he wouldn't scent anyone he killed. I know you haven't read my book, detective, but you may want to.” He nearly forgot himself when the side of his mouth twitched. He didn't smile, still, pulling Fletcher along with the charade that he was a vindictive asshole. It was all a pokerface. Underneath all of this ice, there was a genuine human being. It would be worth it for a thaw. “He came around, he pulled my head back by my hair, and he wiped his nasty ass scent all over me.”

“Right on the money-maker,” Fletcher said without a hint of facetiousness.

McCoy ignored him. “After that, he left and I managed to stay conscious until the ambulance was on its way. I don't know what else I could tell you, Detective.”

“You can tell me if it was him,” Fletcher suggested.

“Excuse me?”

“If it was him.” He met the writer's gaze. “I've scented the samples taken between scenes but I want you to tell me outloud that it was him. So far, you haven't actually bridged that gap in plain language. So for all I know, this is a half-baked publicity stunt and your agent hired a schmuck who can't aim for shit. Unless you opted to take two to the gut but you don't look dumb, Mr. McCoy.”

He _almost_ appeared amused. “And how am I supposed to have his pheromones?”

“I wouldn't count you out just for that, McCoy, I've heard you're quite...resourceful.”

“It was him. In the flesh, Detective.”

“Fletcher,” he grunted.

“Fletch,” McCoy challenged.

“I hate that movie,” he smiled. “Tell me how you got interested in the story. Is it because he's an Omega?”

McCoy scoffed, “It's not hard to make the connection. I saw his work and I knew you'd all underestimated him. He's not an assassin, he considers himself an artist. His dynamic is part of his work, that's why he scents the men he kills. He shows all of you, he shows the world that Omegas are born with the same traits as anyone else, that we are capable of anything and everything that you Alphas think are too much for us.” His eyes flashed despite their clouded narcotic haze. “An _assassin_. Bold. Frightening. A force to behold. A lust for blood and violence that only Alphas seem keen to claim.”

Fletcher was nodding. “Okay. And for all that glorification you just did right here, why call him 'Primadonna?' That's a strange thing to name him if you recognize the point he's making and sympathize with it.”

McCoy finally allowed a slow smile to seep onto his face. It made him look younger than he probably was and sent Fletcher's heart leaping into his throat. “I don't have to sympathize. I _live_ in his world. I live his reality. But I'm not throwing temper tantrums and putting holes in Alpha politicians to make a point while I collect my paycheck.” He chuckled. “There's a reason he spared me, _Fletch_ , and it's because I don't fit the mold. Not only am I an Omega, but I bared him for better and for worse to the world. His message is out—and his feelings got hurt. He's no better than a restauranteur shooting their harshest newspaper critic.”

Fletcher moved from the wall he was leaning on and wandered to the window, staring out into the falling snow and wondering if he was going to have to brush his car off when he went down to the lot. He should have gotten valet. “I get it,” he mused. “At least, I think I do. But if he's upset with you, but not enough to kill you, what's he looking to gain? What's he want from you?”

McCoy paused, thinking. When Fletcher turned toward him again, he was staring at that spot on the wall and his eyes were still clouded. His voice was softer, less sure. “I don't know. Maybe he just wanted punishment. Maybe he was just doing what he knows how to do. Maybe he's looking for a voice.”

“He's got a voice,” Fletcher grunted. “He's got plenty of work we've been seeing in his personal museum—the whole of this city. _My_ city. He's made his point.”

McCoy swallowed. “He's not in control, Detective, and he's got a taste for—”

“Drama?”

“Blood.”

Fletcher sighed. “And your solution, McCoy?”

The writer smiled again but didn't look at him, closing his eyes and clasping his hands over his stomach, laying them lightly down with a heavy pained frown. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” It wasn't a question.

He snickered sardonically. “What is it you'd have me do?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After saying there would be no double updates, I double update. How will anyone trust me again?
> 
> I wanted an Omega bad guy and hit men are...difficult. Like it, hate it; it's too late, you'll have to wait until I finish it for a different plot model.
> 
> Comment with opinions if you have them. Don't be shy.


	4. Chapter 4

The detective looked like he didn't have the capacity to understand Damian's unwillingness to deal with a baseless tantrum thrown by a childish assassin. Why should he bother coming up with a solution? He wasn't the selfish killer's babysitter and the fact that he wrote a monograph about the man and his murders didn't automatically mean he felt an onus to _stop_ him. This was the time for him to remain focused on what really mattered, and that was his recovery. Nothing was going to stop him from working so he worked in the hospital, having Olivia bring him his laptop so he could type away while he was convalescing. She appreciated that, at least. The one who didn't appreciate that was the grumpy detective who came by to see him at least once everyday, sometimes with just the simple excuse that he wanted to know how Damian's wounds were healing.

He didn't understand the detective. Not in the slightest. He was funny, but in a hideously depressed kind of way, which made it easier to talk to him—he _seemed_ a kindred spirit. That was, to the untrained eye. Inside, he probably had a savior complex like most cops did. But the destiny to become a savior was much like most ideals of destiny—complete and utter bullshit. Damian hadn't entered into the world of true crime to discover religion. He'd ended up in the hideous circle jerk of meaninglessness because he was good at it, and because it paid the bills. He found himself utterly at a loss if he found a writer within the genre who still believed in things like miracles or concepts like God or Heaven and Hell. The bulk of them were atheists—and why not?

After awhile in the hospital, he was allowed to leave. Having already made his statement, he could go anywhere he wished and what he wished was the get the fuck out of Dodge. Olivia had floated the idea of doing a signing at the bookstore he'd had to cancel with after he'd left the hospital but he shot it down. He had been left alive once, he wasn't going to tempt fate by staying in the cold, lakeside city any longer than he absolutely had to. He booked a flight for that night, intent on staying far away from his would-be killer. Of course, despite the fact that he didn't believe in fate, he had to admit that he hadn't been counting on the lake effect snow.

He grumbled when Olivia picked him up from the airport, his flight canceled.

She wasn't very chipper either, driving in the snow. “I couldn't get you a hotel in the city, they're all totally booked. I managed to squeeze you into a Hampton in this little town about fifteen minutes away, though.”

“You couldn't just let me crash on the couch in your room?”

“And let you cockblock me?” she scoffed. “Absolutely not. Fuck off. There are some really hot Omegas in this city and I'm not missing out just because Mr. Sourpants is afraid of spending the night in another hotel by himself.”

It figured, he thought. She was hot, she was single, she was Alpha. Olivia was never going to be told no.

“If I'm shot, I'll just blame you.”

She fired back, “Can't blame anyone if you're dead. So suck my knot, you cocky little bitch. I'll put you on the first flight out but this storm is gonna be a big one so I hope you're friendly enough to get a bedmate at this hotel.” She laughed. “If you're scared.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbled, sliding down into the passenger seat.

Out the window, it was white, the flecks of snow a darker gray as they flitted past, coating the roads in a slick white cover. It was hard to know where the sides of the highway were and he was grateful that Olivia was the one driving. He was the type to get nervous and it made sense, after all, as he'd been born and raised in Tampa. This crap was exactly why he didn't understand anyone who lived in places like this. It had to be some form of madness. Every so often, Olivia would have to slow down for traffic and her estimate of fifteen minutes was more like forty-five to an hour.

“Drop me off at the bar,” he told her, his eyes drawn to the neon sign.

“There are bars closer to the hotel.”

“I want this one.”

She sighed heavily and muttered under her breath, “I knew I should have come into town the other way.” Louder, she told him, “Are you going to walk your drunk ass all the way across town to the Hampton? There's a bar literally in the fucking lobby of the Hampton, what's wrong with that?”

“Liv,” he said, deceptively calm. “Drop me off at this fucking bar right now or I swear to God I will fire your ass.”

“You were discharged from the hospital a day ago.”

“ _Olivia_ ,” he roared.

She pulled over, her car tilted against the sidewalk. He got out while she was yelling at him that if he died, she was going to put it in all the papers that he deserved it. He didn't hear the next part because he'd slammed the door shut.

It was nice to be away from her. His stomach hurt but he hadn't taken his meds prescribed. Who needed those when there was something he needed more? The inside of the bar was warm with dim lighting mostly from soft lights in the ceiling and the casual ambiance of neon signage hung on the walls. He sat at the bar and ordered a tequila sunrise, pulling out his phone and Googling how badly it might fuck him up if he had just half of an Oxy with his cocktail. As his drink was set in front of him, flickering in the light from the televisions displaying a top ten episode of the best hockey rivalries, the seat beside him was taken and a familiar voice ordered an Old Fashioned.

He felt his face lose all emotion and he stared at the bar over the screen of his phone, waiting for the eventual lecture. When it didn't come, he asked in a flat tone, “I didn't know it was your business to follow me. Especially in a blizzard.”

“Oh,” the detective said. “Hey there, McCoy.”

He felt a twinge of annoyance. “Don't pretend you weren't following me. There's no way you'd be in this bumblefuck town in this weather without a reason.”

Schilling laughed, the sound putting a few strange sensations into Damian's chest. “Can the reason be that this is my favorite bar and that I live here?” He was smiling but his eyes were heavy-lidded still. The developing crows feet at the corners of his eyes made something inside the writer flip and flop and he felt the pain in his stomach intensify just from the sensation. Schilling looked at the Tequila Sunrise but didn't say anything, just allowing one of his brows to dip slightly before he picked up his own Old Fashioned and started sipping it. “What brings you to my neck of the woods, McCoy?”

He shrugged, uncomfortable under the detective's gaze. There was some kind of shame floating at the bottom of that glass, pooled in the red of the grenadine and he recognized it readily. “I could only get a room at the Hampton.”

“Low class for someone like you.”

“I'm not picky,” he grumbled.

“Well, if you decide you want to bar hop with me, I'll make sure you get there, my next stop is up that way.” He was flashing his grin with those perfect white teeth and Damian was getting the distinct impression that he was being flirted with.

“I will _not_ be taking you back to my hotel,” he spat.

“No,” Schilling conceded, “I'll be taking you back to your hotel. Come on, don't be a spoil sport, drinking alone is never fun.” He was sipping his Old Fashioned through the small straw, sucking it down at an alarming rate.

Although most Alphas had a decently high tolerance for alcohol, it wasn't unheard of for Damian to casually drink them under the table. He picked up his own glass and sipped the sunrise slowly, the cold beverage splashing into him and warming his insides. He flashed a side-eyed glance to the detective. “No lecture?”

“For what?”

“Drinking despite abdominal wounds?”

He shrugged. “None of my business to tell you what to do with yourself.”

It was a notion that was foreign to Damian. From the moment he'd been born, he'd had Alphas telling him what he was supposed to do. He was told by anyone and everyone that he wasn't suited to do just about anything he'd wanted and for about half his life, he'd wasted his time listening to them all. Now, faced with a man who wasn't about to tell him no, he was unsure of his course of action. He decided to take long swallows of his drink and put it down on the bar, half-finished. He would deal with whatever pain it caused him, if any. It would take more than a few sunrises to get him to stumble to the point of ripping stitches and he didn't quite plan on mixing the narcotics. At least, not anymore.

They had walked to the next bar and they were both about three drinks deep before Schilling broke through the stiff banter they'd been subsisting with.

“So you write this book,” he started, “and you don't mind that he's still out there killing people. Which, I get it, it's not your job. It's mine. But you don't have any...ideas. None. At all. As the man who knows absolutely everything about the case...” He tapped the bar with a finger, shaking his head.

Damian felt the liquor sloshing around in his brain a little. “I don't know why I would bother. What's it gonna change?”

Schilling shrugged. With a soft mutter he let out a weak proposal. “...save people.”

“No point.”

At this, Schilling took Damian's Malibu Seabreeze and drained it, holding his gaze the whole time. He clacked the bottom of the glass down on the bar and held his stare.

“What was that?” Damian asked, wide-eyed.

“I could have not done that,” he said. “But I felt like it. It only hurt you. Nobody in this bar cares that I just did it. They don't know what you were drinking and they hold no sentiment for it, making it something that's not their problem. It was going to get drunk anyway, right? Who cares what did it? There's no reason for it to be in front of you anyway, you shouldn't even be drinking it. It had no inherent value and held purpose only for you, making it effectually pointless.”

He narrowed his eyes into slits. “You're making a point.”

Schilling didn't smile. “Read into it what you want but it won't change anything.” At this he let a soft smirk come over his mouth and in the dim light of the bar, he looked perfectly kissable. “That's what you're saying, isn't it?”

“About what?”

“People. Victims.”

He chuckled and raised up a finger, asking the bartender for another Seabreeze. “Yes.”

“If you don't believe in purpose, why write the book in the first place?” He sipped his whiskey and tilted his head, ready for the answer.

“Because I'm interested in art.”

“Why?”

He let himself smile. “Because art is...” he stared just past Schilling's ear, unfocused toward the windows. “A flailing attempt at finding purpose. Evidence of a struggling humanity. A part of the human condition that forces them to make nonsensical emotional efforts to feel tangible in a thinning reality.”

Schilling stared at him with a strange half-amused expression, the pause before his words long enough to make the statement funny when it came.

“You really _are_ a nihilist.”

A few hours later and Damian had completely forgotten that he'd told the detective that he wasn't going to bring him back to his hotel room.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian sounds like those wanna-be fuckboys you meet in bars who try too hard to sound smart because they wanna fuck you, make you feel inferior, or both. Drinking their drink and blue-balling them is the only proper recourse, take notes everyone.
> 
> Comments/Concerns? In-depth inherently meta conversations about nihilism and the human condition? You know what to do.
> 
> See you next update when we throw fate right into Damian's pedantic little face.


	5. Chapter 5

The sunlight wasn't bright but it was present, infusing the small space as it passed through the crack in the hotel room's dark curtains. The room was small but complete with the usual hotel stuff and Fletcher had made sure to grab a couple toothbrushes as they walked past the desk around two in the morning. Since McCoy's agent had already checked him in, his luggage was already there. Fortunately, his agent had put it on the floor rather than on the bed or Fletcher would have found himself crushing it with the way McCoy had bodily thrown him down, his actions fueled by drink and a mindless need.

He stared up at the ceiling and felt his cheeks flush while he recalled their drunken kisses, wet and sensual. He was laying on his back under the covers, warm and comfortable and dreading the hints of a hangover that were lingering just under the surface. He knew that his brain was a motion-sensitive bomb and the slightest jostle was going to make him wish he'd never been born along with triggering an insatiable hunger that could be quelled only by coffee and a quick infusion of vitamins. Pancakes sounded like a great idea. When his tongue swept his bottom lip, his memory flashed with the feeling of pushing it past another bottom lip. McCoy's bottom lip. Delving into that sweet warmth that met him readily and returned the favor, forcing a tight sensation in his lower stomach.

McCoy hadn't seemed too upset when Fletcher had stopped the both of them with a little push on the Omega's shoulders, caressing his delicate collarbones with his thumbs while he explained that he was worried about the sutures. McCoy had nodded, reasonably responding that Fletcher was right, that the sutures were something that needed to be considered. When the detective had retreated to the bathroom to brush his teeth, McCoy had brazenly wandered into the room and taken a piss, checking the surgical tape over the incisions for fresh bleeding and, finding none, returning to the bed. He'd surprised Fletcher even further when he'd invited the detective to stay the night and had instigated a round of short, tender kisses that set Fletcher's heart on fire. He'd been right, after all, about those kisses.

 _He's lonely_ , Fletcher thought while he stared up at the white ceiling. It had been an errant thought but it stuck in his head and he fully realized the implications of it. The writer beside him was simply _lonely_. Those soul-crushing kisses he'd emblazoned across Fletcher's mouth and throat with those impossibly soft lips had been the product of an intense need for human affection. He slowly moved his head to look at the man beside him, clad in a t-shirt and underwear much like he was. Their warmth mingled together under the covers but they didn't touch and Fletcher felt a terrible heaviness clamp inside his chest. He'd done something horribly wrong in staying. McCoy would no doubt lash out at him, feeling embarrassed for having slipped into a moment of vulnerability where Fletcher could see into him. He looked up at the ceiling again. _I should go._ But he couldn't. It wasn't in his nature.

McCoy eventually stirred, coming awake with the gentle touch of sunlight on his face. He drew a long breath in, his hand reaching out and the backs of his fingers gently brushing against Fletcher's arm. His eyes flew open and Fletcher waited for the inevitable exclamation. It didn't come.

“Fletch?”

He swallowed and tried, “Well, fancy meeting you here, McCoy.”

The writer laughed, his smile enough to make blood start rushing toward his nether region. When he was finished laughing, he cuddled his face against the pillow and rubbed his eyes to get the sleep from them. His next words were soft and nothing like what Fletcher expected.

“I thought you were the type to let me wake up alone.”

He almost felt insulted. “That's no way to treat someone who invited me over and...” He rethought whether or not he wanted to chat about McCoy's hellfire kisses.

McCoy sat up, rubbing the back of his head, his fingers lightly fluffing over the shaved hairs. It looked soft enough that Fletcher couldn't believe he hadn't cupped the back of his head when he'd been kissing him the previous night. He was almost actually mad about the missed opportunity to do so.

“You think it's still snowing?” McCoy asked.

“Could be. If it is, are you going to get back in this bed?”

“If it is, I'm gonna make coffee in this coffee maker and call down to stay another night. And then...then maybe I'll get back in bed.” He looked over at Fletcher with a flat expression. “I assume you're asking because I made out with you last night and you're looking for something else.”

“Mostly wondering if I should get up and take you out to breakfast on my day off. I hope you don't mind the snow when you're sober though, we're gonna have to walk. I got a bad headache and an IV of straight caffeine is the only cure. Aside from all that, I wouldn't mind having woken up to meet the same man I went to bed with last night.”

McCoy's face loosened into a smirk while he peered out the heavy curtains. A moment later, he turned around and shuffled back toward the bed, crawling up and hesitating. The mental process was probably complicated and his facial expressions weren't always a reliable source of information so Fletcher decided to make it easier, if he could.

“You not less than.”

McCoy looked into his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“If you want touch. Affection.” Fletcher reached out his hand and brushed McCoy's shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Nobody's judging you here but yourself.”

His expression was unreadable. “I don't know you.”

“That's fair,” Fletcher conceded. “I don't know you either. But you smell sweet and you kiss like the Devil. Not to mention, you write a hell of a book.”

He could see McCoy's cheeks grow pink at the compliment.

“I know you're a man who doesn't believe in things like destiny. Fate. But I've never been too keen on coincidences. So when I run into you in a bar in my town when you're supposed to be on a flight out, I'm of a mind that you could be wrong about fate. After all, a few drinks and a blizzard put me right here, warm in your bed with the heat of those kisses in my head.” He whispered, unsure of his words. “And I can't help but think I'd like to get to know you.”

McCoy got off the bed and moved to the coffeemaker, deftly setting it to brew while he organized the cups and looked through the packets of sugar. Fletcher only watched him from where he lay on the bed, staring at his ass in his underwear as he moved, curiously glancing at his shirt where it fell over his stomach when he turned around. He met McCoy's eyes when the coffee was streaming into the pot, the writer staring at him with a hard, almost angry expression.

“What?”

McCoy snorted, “What do you mean, _what_? You are absolutely infuriating, that's _what_.”

Fletcher's head pounded. “I don't get it.”

“You don't get it,” McCoy mocked. “That's right. None of you Alphas get it. You're sitting in a room filled with my scent, drunk on it, and telling me that you want to get to know me _._ ” He threw his hands up. “Because I drunkenly made out with you last night. That is unbelievable. You're just free to say whatever the fuck you want and think it'll get me to bend over for you just because you consider yourselves irresistible.”

Fletcher sat up, holding the side of his head while he nodded. “Does this mean you don't want breakfast?”

McCoy looked at the window before he shut his eyes and took a long deep breath in and then let it out. Without warning, he turned and put his foot up on the end of the hotel bed, stepping up on it so he was standing over Fletcher, looming over him. He approached, his delicious Omega scent stronger and more pronounced with less of that odd tinge he'd had in the hospital. Quickly, he dropped to his knees, straddling Fletcher's lap and brought his hand to the detective's chest only to shove him, hard, backwards, his head thumping against the wooden bedframe. McCoy's eyes were clear and sharp when he put his hands on either side of Fletcher's head.

He couldn't find his voice. He wanted to make a joke—smooth it all out. He couldn't. Not while McCoy had bent down and kissed him the way he had. It was savage and possessive, not the kind of thing one would have expected from an Omega and definitely not anything that Fletcher had experienced before. He imagined that this was the kind of demanding kiss that Omegas often had to field when it came to dating dominant and over-compensating Alphas. The crushing weight of it felt exciting for him and he felt himself drowning in it, suffocated by it, and all the more hungry for more because of it. In fact, to his utter dismay, he found that when McCoy pulled back, he actually _whimpered_ in want of that hard control.

McCoy left him on the bed, his head still aching, his body tightened and quivering with that unnamed need that had been discovered and satisfied all in the last few seconds. The writer poured two cups of coffee and put the one meant for Fletcher on the bedside table while he called down to the desk and requested that he be billed for another night. With those hard eyes, the Omega watched him while he drank his coffee in long gulps, hoping for whatever slight relief it might give him. McCoy wasn't going to let him off the hook for being an Alpha and in some strange way, he loved that notion. It was new, it was exhilarating, and he'd never seen it before in his life—he was used to the good-natured eye-rolling type of Omega. The type that acknowledged the Alpha stereotypes and accepted them as a fact of life. McCoy forgave nothing. He finished his coffee and knew that he had to get out of this room before he started getting embarrassed by how much of his arousal the writer should have been able to scent.

“Pancakes?” he asked, setting the mug down next to the cheap plastic radio with too-big red block numbers.

McCoy drained his cup. “You buying?”

“Unless that's too Alpha of me.”

It was apparently acceptable and they wandered their way down the snow-covered sidewalks until they'd ended up at the small local diner where they were seated almost immediately. It was only after they'd both ordered and had been given more coffee that Fletcher got down to the business that he really wanted to discuss with the prickly Omega.

“I really wanna nail this assassin. That's my job, after all,” he started, “and I was wondering if you might be willing to help me out.”

“I told you, I don't have any ideas. I don't care one way or the other.”

“Become famous, McCoy,” he grinned. “Help me catch him.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically and then sighed through his nose, sipping his coffee.

“He's watching you. Write me up an editorial. Put it somewhere he's gonna see it. Right in the Buffalo News if you want. I can see if they'll work with my department and make a whole section front splash. You can have your name in the byline and we'll fish the little shit out of hiding.”

McCoy was visibly pale, his lips thin and bloodless. When the proposal was finished, he shook his head with a determined expression. “Absolutely fucking not.”

Fletcher leaned back in his seat. “I wouldn't let him actually kill you.” He knew that McCoy wouldn't believe that but it was worth it to say because he meant it. The mere idea of letting McCoy become the victim of a senseless crime was enough to boil his blood. “I would make sure you were safe.”

“Fuck off,” the writer spat. “You don't know what that means.”

He put a hand through his hair and leaned forward. “So teach me. I swear to all that is good and right in this world, McCoy, I will not let him hurt you. If that takes spending all my time, twenty-four hours a day with you, by your side, I'll do it.”

The writer leaned forward and hissed dangerously, “That doesn't work in the movies and it's not gonna work in real life. Don't bullshit me, I'm not your bait in the trap, I'm a human being. If you're so keen on it, why don't _you_ do something? Do a TV interview. Put your _own_ ass on the line.”

Dejected, he tilted his head and leaned his elbow on the tabletop. He had to admit that it wasn't a bad suggestion and it would probably work...but that suggestion didn't leave the possibility to be with McCoy literally all the time. He had to admit to himself that perhaps when he'd come up with the scheme, he hadn't been thinking with the correct head.

“Then help me in another way,” he blurted. “And write my interview questions. Tell me what to say that will catch his attention.”

The Omega leaned back and threw up his hands. “You want to get to know me, I get it. Okay. You know what? Fine. I give. But I want you to know right now that I'm doing this for the story. Not for you. And not for your wasted effort to make me swoon.” His face was cast in a blazing scowl.

The detective paused for a moment before he felt his mouth tip upward. “If I'd known swooning was even on the table, I would have been trying harder.” He was still chuckling to himself when his huge plate of pancakes was set before him. Now, the challenge was to figure out how he was going to get the jump on the killer, a mental puzzle he intended to have finished before he even got to the bottom of his pancake stack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian doesn't want to get set on fire and rolled through a parking lot.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Heavy nihilistic angst. Choke on it. I promise it's the end of it.

_The question that burns in the minds of professionals and terrified citizens alike: Why? Other inquiries can flit around concerning parents, schooling, political views, and even blackmail but it all comes back to the single syllable “why” when it comes to an Omega murderer. It can be argued, as Dr. Fisher writes in his 1988 volume,_ Omega Dynamic: A Study _that the subtype of gender may have less to do with personality traits than some may argue, citing examples of Omegas who have clearly Alpha-based personality quirks which include but are not limited to: aggression, possessiveness, and irrational fits of anger. Recent studies have shown that there are noticeably more cases in which the gender dynamics will trade off certain personality traits and even physical traits, one study showing that there is a marked increase in the number of young men on high school football teams presenting as Omegas despite their relatively larger size and potential for aggressive behavior. For these reasons alone and more to be explored in this chapter, light starts to shine on the possibilities for answering the million dollar query. Perhaps we've all been looking at the right thing in the wrong way._

* * *

Damian put down the copy of his own book where he'd found it on Fletcher's coffee table, noting that the Tarot card the detective had used as a bookmark was still tucked between the pages at the back. He put his hands in his pockets, turning to look at the mantle piece while he waited for the Alpha to get finished changing his clothes. He wanted Fletcher to be in the room when he started brainstorming about interview questions and this was the perfect time to start snooping around inside the house.

It was mid-sized and the outside was green with white and burgundy shutters. In the summer, he imagined that Fletcher probably had a lovely front garden, beautifully mulched and accented with daffodils in the spring. The inside of it was quite masculine with dark tones, cherry wood floors, and missionary styled furniture. A bit of a surprise were the beautiful Tiffany stained glass lampshades on all the standing and table top lamps which threw a splash or two of color into every room. It would have surprised Damian to find out that Fletcher had designed the interior himself. The whole of it was, predictably, infused with the Alpha's scent along with the comforting aroma of fresh bread and the sting of a pine air freshener that must have been plugged in somewhere.

It was homey, which was more than Damian could say of anywhere he had ever lived. His current permanent digs were in a neighborhood outside of Tampa. It was an apartment that was drab, warm, and mostly just a place to store his multitudes of books. Every so often when he came home from a promotional trip, he would find whole families of spiders taking refuge inside it from the relentless reptiles that lay in wait outside. For this reason alone, he was often grateful that he was traveling much of the time. “Homey” was never a word that could have been used for any of his previous apartments either and although he appreciated design, he thought it would have been pointless to create anything more than a space considered “livable.” Form was never ranked higher than function and the bare minimum was usually enough.

The mantle was decorated with obligatory family photos, the detective rarely smiling in any of them, even the ones when he was clearly a teenager, perhaps just past his presentation. He should have been ecstatic. Presenting as an Alpha was normally the highlight of one's high school career and the ever-present half-scowl in nearly every photo was puzzling.

Fletcher's voice floated through the room. “My mom brought all those over when I bought the house. She's a little pushy.”

Damian chuckled, “Moms can be that way.”

“Yeah. Alpha. She and I used to get in knock-down, drag-outs when I was a kid.” He laughed but Damian couldn't tell if it was fond or not. “She didn't really get me. I guess she still doesn't.”

He looked back at the photos. “So your dad was the Omega?”

“Yeah. He was pretty typical, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his head and sat on the couch next to where Damian's laptop was set up on the coffee table. “He always just kinda went along with whatever. Took care of me and the house, he worked part time at a coffee place around the corner from where we lived and he was...he was really loving. He was my favorite person in the whole world.”

“That's pretty common for kids.”

“Yeah,” Fletcher smiled. “I guess. You'd think we'd get it right one of these days, huh?”

“What's that?” he asked.

“That we're nothing without you guys.”

Damian came to sit next to him and leaned forward, tapping a few words into the computer and ignoring the train of the conversation. He forced Fletcher to brainstorm with him and they put together interview questions and answers. They worked on them most of the day, formulating them specifically to call out the little bastard who was out marking his kills. Fletcher asked intelligent questions regarding the form of specific statements and questions that could make them more effective and often wondered aloud if he might be able to keep the tone of the answers neutral enough to seem impersonal. Damian had no doubt that the detective could definitely remain with a decently flat-expression, the affect already second nature.

In the end, his undoing was really the closeness of the two of them. Fletcher's scent was literally everywhere and he was unguarded, hovering over Damian's shoulder to see the words on the screen as he wrote them. The strength of him and his mere presence was something that Damian gradually became aware of, the bulkiness of it crowding into his brain until he could feel his nose flare, his lungs sucking in as much air as they could in an effort to get enough of that singular aroma.

“McCoy?”

He'd stopped typing, his fingers resting gently on the tops of the keyboard. Almost as if snapped out of a dream, he turned his head toward the detective and raised his brows, making a light hum in question.

“You alright?” His expression wasn't concerned, in fact despite the fact that his mouth was still in a straight line across his face, his eyes flashed with what Damian could swear was amusement.

He looked forward again and then the fact that he hadn't noticed his own arousal suddenly dawned over him and he slowly closed the laptop, unable to get up from the couch despite his embarrassment. His mouth wouldn't even open. What could he have said?

“I don't want you to take this the wrong way,” Fletcher noted, his voice passive. “But do you even know how long it's been?”

The question was impertinent and he shouldn't have deigned to answer it. It fell out of his mouth anyway, like water through a sieve. “Five years. Give or take.” He paused, refusing to look at the detective's face. “That is...five years since...an Alpha. There were a...a few Betas...since. But not since...not since...two years ago?” He tried to remember but it was difficult. He'd been drunk most of the time and many things had a tendency to get erased when one was consistently punishing the liver.

Fletcher's breath was hot on his ear, causing goosebumps to rise all over his body, his erection twitching in his jeans. “So...if it all means nothing. If we're hurtling through space and time in an unforgiving and unfeeling universe. If there's no inherent meaning to anything...” His voice was a husky murmur. “Then it might not matter if I buried my face between your thighs?”

The sharp tang of Fletcher's scent was apparent and Damian was struck by how absolutely appealing the whole idea was. He imagined the way Fletcher might move the coffee table just to kneel down in front of him, keeping his legs spread with those strong hands and enveloping him into the inviting heat of his mouth. Through all of it, his brain created a single discordant note that threatened to derail the entire event.

_I don't want it to mean nothing._

He was mortified by the idea and he felt a lump form in his throat, blocking any answer he could give verbally. He _wanted_ Fletcher to do exactly that. He wanted Fletcher to do a lot of things. It even occurred to him that it might not even been all that unwelcome to have Fletcher around the next time his heat cycled. He gasped in a stuttering breath and blinked away a good bit of tears that had welled up behind his eyes. “I...I'm sorry,” he sobbed.

Fletcher eased back, a tentative and warm hand coming up to touch Damian's shoulder. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he cooed, “That was supposed to be sexy.”

He felt the tears he'd valiantly fought against roll out of his eyes and tap onto his knees. “I don't mean to be this way,” he explained. “I don't want to be. I promise you, it's not who I am.”

“Crying?” Fletcher asked. “I mean, even Alphas cry. I cry about once a week.”

He found himself laughing even while he was still letting out loose sobs. “I want things to _matter_. I want _meaning_. I want to believe in _dreams_ and _fate_.” He looked over his shoulder into Fletcher's gray eyes. “I just...can't believe that we were meant to live through horror.” He wiped at his eyes with the backs of his hands and then a tissue when Fletcher handed him one. He sniffed, covering his eyes with his hand. “Life is full of unimaginable sadness, Fletcher. Forced upon us through atrocities. How could anyone accept that anything was _meant to be_?”

The detective didn't answer and Damian didn't go on. They sat together, that warm hand on his back gently kneading over and over until Fletcher exerted a steady pressure, pulling Damian against him in a comforting embrace. After a while, his voice was soft and inquisitive.

“Is this the curse of being a true crime writer?”

“Hah,” he laughed humorlessly. “I guess you might say it is. Or you might just say it's the curse of Damian McCoy. Forever trapped in a cold space, alone.”

The Alpha's arms tightened around him and he felt his cheek against his hair. “You're not alone. Not if you don't want to be.”

He felt his arms snake around Fletcher's middle, holding tight while his brain reeled over and over, hosting the same terrible thought again and again until he buried his face into Fletcher's neck and focused only on his calming fragrance. He didn't understand what it was about Fletcher that made him wish for something he hadn't needed in years. He felt like a desperate artist, clinging to the only evidence of reality—of what existentialists called _authenticity._ As much as he'd thought he was interested by art, he'd never truly appreciated something like _this_. A subtle touch, a promised word, and the deep invading idea of finding meaning on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost hard to look at. Starting next chapter: Actual stuff happening! Wow. Because fuck feelings.


	7. Chapter 7

Fletcher had set up the whole interview with one of the larger local news stations and the department had made a press release to announce that the interview would occur, the news of it spreading within every circle that was expected. Of course, the commissioner was skeptical of most of it until she had actually read the questions and planned answers. The thing she didn't like the most was that it was impossible to know when the damned hit man was actually going to strike. As a precaution, she determined that it would be prudent to set him up with a set of escorts that would keep a constant watch over his house and would follow him when he went to work. Any of his pleas for her not to make them so obvious (that was kind of the point, after all) were met with deaf ears as she was unwilling to blatantly leave him to the whims of chance when it came to taking on a professional. Fortunately, his charm was enough to convince the officers tasked with his safety that they would park their patrol car a few streets down and hide themselves _ins_ _ide_ his house at night, when the strike was most likely to occur.

Of course the snow hadn't actually stopped. It was blustering and intermittent and the drifting was making the feet of snow that had already fallen drift across roads and runways, making movement through the region a mess and a half. The storm had past over and then come back again, dumping close to seven feet on Fletcher's small town and stranding him there for the time being. Fortunately, the news was making its rounds to cover the weather and he'd managed to convince the roaming anchor to host his interview anyway. Damian, thankfully, displayed no inclination to leave, expressing a passive curiosity for the proceedings that the detective hoped might have been a mask for his willingness to stay for the promise of something a little bit more than a meaningless existence.

He put his gloved hands in his pockets while he tapped the toes of his boots down on the sidewalk in front of Main Street's most notable landmarks. The red and white awning was sure to be a symbol that was too blatant to ignore and he was certain that the location would mean just as much as the words when it came down to it. He stood with his elbows tucked against his sides while the camera crew set up and he and the anchor hashed out how they were going to present and answer each question.

Despite the fact that she was a pretty little Omega, he surprised himself when he didn't feel the impulse to flirt with her. As the interaction moved forward, he developed the understanding that her confidence was bolstered by his professionalism and he felt like he was doing better. She cleared her throat, standing with him while she interviewed him, her voice solid and unwavering.

Close to the end, she kept to script, her voice powerful in its questioning sincerity. “In your opinion, what is the course of action? What are things that normal citizens can expect from this point forward?”

“At this point, you're going to start seeing more initiative and cohesion in the local departments with a special interest group specifically targeting this issue. These instances of terror in our city are going to be stopped and it's going to be by my hand. Citizens should be on the lookout for any suspicious behavior. It's time to galvanize ourselves, not let ourselves be taken advantage of by this evil presence running amok. It's time we stopped glorifying this killer and assuming he's untouchable just because he's an Omega, treating him like he's misunderstood rather than just an everyday low-life.” He glanced into the camera with purpose. “He's no better than anyone else who goes around popping off whoever they don't like and I don't care how much reading into it you've done. There's no point in entertaining this _prim_ _adonna_.”

Confident that the usage of the word was blatant enough to cause a response, the interview wound down predictably and he watched the anchor sign off just as the sky opened up with a slow but steady scatter of flakes. He watched her while she spoke to the crew and followed her movements while she packed up with them. Bewildered, he wondered why he'd never paid more attention to the small ways he'd been undermining every Omega he'd had contact with. In just the effort to make them happy—to make them smile—he'd been undermining every professional and serious thing they tried to accomplish with him. He felt stupid.

A thrumming energy filled him and he recognized it as frustration. With himself. With the situation. He'd been so careless about other people and his last thoughts, or at least, where they stopped, were of McCoy. Had he been careless there? Had he been wrong to play into McCoy's world view? It would take some time before the interview was aired so he went to the hotel and found the writer madly tapping away on his latest project. Around the time that the recording was broadcast over the local network, the two of them had met up with McCoy's agent for dinner at one of the local restaurants.

Her name was Olivia Carlton and she was a possessive Alpha. Her attitude toward McCoy was, on the outside, prickly, but it was obvious by the way she spoke of him that she was actually fiercely protective of him. It was a trait that was common and not at all unexpected. Still, Fletcher squirmed under her intense scrutiny.

Olivia was ruthless, “So. Detective. What could have possessed you to ever want to try your hand at drinking with Damian? I'm of the mind that the only reason he survived the other night was because you found him.”

He shrugged, offering a noncommittal answer. “Chance?” Before she could ask him any other grilling questions about their relationship, he turned the tables. “Pardon, Miss Carlton, but it seems odd to me to find an agent like yourself working with an Omega author.”

McCoy interjected, “She's the only one who wrote back to me.”

As much as she might have tried to hide it, Fletcher caught the small affectionate glance that Olivia threw toward the young writer. She replied with an artificial edge in her voice. “He neglected to mention that he was an Omega in his query, which, I must be honest, isn't a requirement. I thought he was at least a Beta until I finally met him in New York to discuss his publication and I have to admit, I was surprised. He didn't write like an Omega.”

Fletcher took a sip from his wine glass. “You weren't opposed to the idea of being an Alpha agent working for an Omega writer?”

She shrugged. “I thought about dumping him once or twice in consideration of my professional reputation, but he's a fantastic writer.”

McCoy's cheeks were again pink.

“From the success of this venture and all the articles he wrote for several true crime journals, I can assume he's going to continue to be successful and I can handle a bit of ribbing from other agents about the whole situation. Not only that, I get major kudos from most Omega agents who catch wind of it.”

McCoy leaned forward. “That is, from the Omega agents who didn't reject me. They hate her.”

She chuckled, easing her fingers into her hair and tucking it back behind her ear. Her mischievous eyes sparkled in the dim glow of the restaurant lighting and her teeth gleamed when she bared them in a ruthless grin. “I'm almost disgusted that you took pity on them and pitched your serious work to people who work almost exclusively with Omega fantasy romance.” Her chuckle continued, “Omegas. Always trying to stick together even while disavowing each other.”

Fletcher remarked, sagely, “Only as much infighting in that dynamic as in others, I suppose.”

McCoy snarked, his brow quirked, “It's only fair to let them know what's on the table. It's not my fault they didn't want to work with something they hadn't before and it's not your fault they missed out on an opportunity. Omega dynamic infighting only helps cement the point of my work, anyway, suggesting that there are too many differences between us to collectively categorize our behavior and beliefs.”

Olivia rolled her eyes dramatically. “And yet you still pile fifty blankets onto your futon when you're about to go into heat and call me in the middle of the night, begging to fuck as if I'm going to hop a flight to Tampa just to come knot you.”

McCoy was red from the hem of his t-shirt to his hairline, sputtering and stammering his unintelligible response that Fletcher wished he could have understood. Instead of attempting to make himself heard, he picked up his whiskey sour and gulped at it. Even though it was at his expense, he still seemed half-amused by the observation and it gave Fletcher the freedom to chuckle about it and imagine the implications. Heats were by no means easy to weather alone for many Omegas and in just knowing that small tidbit, he was facilitated in his effort to imagine McCoy as more...typical.

In fact, he was already letting his eyes glaze over while he imagined getting that phone call, that reedy way McCoy's voice would have warbled through the phone line while he lay in a nest of blankets, naked and writhing. The pleas for relief that Olivia must have been privy to were enough to make him wish he could have been the first one that McCoy called. The ways he could have instructed the little Omega through pleasuring himself, touching his own body in filthy fumbling movements. When he was panting, falling from the edge, crying out and weeping in relief, he could be the voice of reason, telling him to get up, to crawl to the fridge. To hydrate himself before he leaked the whole of his body's fluid content out of his tight, wet ass.

He was popped out of the errant daydream by McCoy's loud exclamation.

_“Anyway.”_

He refocused his eyes on McCoy and pushed the daydream aside. As nobody had actually rescued the writer from the mortification of being ousted as a pining and sexually frustrated Omega, he was still flushed entirely red, even his ears a deep shade. Fletcher took mercy on him and shrugged, clearing his throat.

“Nobody can blame an Omega for trying. As an Alpha, I have to admit, I'd be hard pressed to say no to a phone call like that.”

“Buh- _lieve_ me,” Olivia grinned, “I really had to stop myself a few times. He can be _very_ persuasive.”

“Well,” Fletcher felt his cheeks grow a little warmer while he leaned back in his seat, giving McCoy his best “bedroom” eyes. “I don't think I'd take much persuading.”

After the author's next round of sputtering and swallowing hard liquor, they all split up. Fletcher wandered back to his house where the two officers were already posted while McCoy went back to his hotel room and Olivia drove back to Buffalo. She was hopeful that there would be an undisturbed flight out to New York soon but there was no optimism in her eyes. The clouds were thickening and had taken on an ominous gray shade, the flakes getting fatter and wetter as they fell. The storm, it seemed, had not snowed itself out by any means and Fletcher thought that he may end up waiting until it passed for the assassin to strike.

Unfortunately, as the hours ticked by, he found himself growing ever more impatient with the snow, the circumstances, and mostly, himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of a double update today. Guarantee it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Somewhat graphic death scene.

Damian felt sleepy despite having crashed nearly immediately after dinner in an effort to ignore how humiliated he'd felt by Olivia's comments about his heats. As he sat on the bed with the laptop hooked into the TV, browsing through the Netflix options, he felt drowsy and irritated. He wished that Fletcher didn't have to wait for this stupid assassin to come and try to put him in the ground. The whole issue was putting nervous squirming emotions in his guts. If none of this had happened, Fletcher wouldn't have put himself in danger. If he hadn't been so selfish, it would have been him. He could have had Fletcher here, now. He wished that it was all over. So the detective could come to him. So that he could have a warm body to hold while he watched ten episodes of Scrubs in a row. He wanted to fall asleep on top of someone.

Not even just _someone_.

He wanted to fall asleep on Fletcher _._

He decided to watch _Jurassic Park_ and pulled a pillow to his chest as the movie started. His eyelids drooped and he yawned. The room was too dark but he didn't feel like getting up to turn the lights on. Eventually, he dozed while the movie continued.

A faint scent woke him and he sat up with his heart in his throat. Unsure of whether or not the scent had come from real life or was merely a remnant of a dream, he looked at the red glowing lights on nightstand clock.

2:10.

Damian held the pillow tighter to his chest as he sat on the bed. When the faint and eerily familiar Omega tone didn't fade with his wakefulness, he moved to the side of the bed closest to the shared bathroom wall. This way, if anyone came in through the door, they wouldn't see him until they had passed him, or were at least in range of his hands. He whirled his head around and grabbed the only loose thing on the nightstand. The alarm clock.

There was an odd sound. Scraping and clicking and almost like a light sawing before there was the quiet squeak of the hinge and Damian could see the light from the hallway creep over the carpet to his left. His fingers squeezed around the boxy alarm clock and his heart pounded in his chest. There was no other explanation. The little blonde prick was going to kill him if he didn't stop him.

_Why me? Why didn't he go to Fletcher? Was it the style of the questions? Did he recognize my voice in the way the questions were answered? Did he already get Fletcher and...?_

He blinked away the thought, unwilling to entertain it.

His ears pricked as he watched the shadow move as the intruder came forward slowly and he found his heart beating hard in his ears, the familiar scent of the murderous Omega still faint but present enough to be absolutely certain of it.

He pressed himself against the wall as far as he could, raising the clock upward in his hand.

As soon as the assassin crept forward enough so that Damian could catch a glimpse of his dirty blonde hair, he brought down the clock, smashing it as hard as he could over the man's head, the plastic piece of crap exploding into a thousand pieces and scattering over the floor. It had most certainly taken him by surprise, as he stumbled forward and had to catch himself on the edge of the room's small but sturdy desk. There was a heavy thunk on the carpeted floor as he dropped something and it slid under the bed. The blow hadn't taken him down for the count, however, and he spun quickly, diving toward Damian with malice set in his shaded, pretty features.

The writer was caught around the middle and tackled to the floor. They scuffled for a small while in the narrow space beside the bed, both of them fighting for dominance. Damian was caught on the bottom and couldn't seem to get himself on top, finding the space just too cramped to get the upper hand. It was when the man managed to pull out a blade that there was no more option than to simply become absolutely brutal.

He struggled to keep the knife away from his face while simultaneously easing his leg between himself and the other man until he could jerk and twist enough so that his attacker was pushed into the edge of the bed hard enough for the whole piece of furniture to move. Suddenly, he grappled his way to the top and slammed the hand holding the knife into the thinly carpeted floor until it was released. When it was, he made an attempt to grab it but only managed to hit it with the palm of his hand, sending it underneath the nightstand. He was rewarded with a sharp blow to his ribs and, recoiling from the pain of such a hit, he was struck in the face and reeled backward.

The man pushed him hard and the back of Damian's head hit the leg of the desk, sending stars into his vision. His assailant managed to get both hands around his throat and pressed hard with his thumbs directly into the windpipe. As he flailed and swung upward, his wrist hit the side of the desk and something hit his fingers.

_The pen._

He struggled for breath and pushed against his would-be killer while his left hand stretched and scrambled for the small plastic writing utensil. Some stroke of dumb luck made his attacker shift, bumping the table enough so that the pen rolled into Damian's trembling palm as the edges of his vision started to grow black.

He drove it downward and took in a whoosh of air that swept into his lungs and felt like fifty thousand gallons of water on a brush fire. The killer was making a strange pained sound somewhere between a scream and a groan and he had gotten to his knees and then fallen backward, his butt between his feet as he leaned back against the edge of the bed. One hand was on his neck and the other was gripping his own black turtleneck. The dim light from the hallway wasn't bright enough to show detail but as Damian scrambled upwards and back against the wall, he was aware of the blood. There was quite a bit of it and more was pouring out over the bedspread.

Damian coughed a few times and, still afraid, stared into strained pretty blue eyes set under light brows. His lower face was covered but a smattering of freckles was just visible over the dark mask. He certainly would have been a heartbreaker, Damian thought wildly. His voice raspy from the attack on his throat, he managed a guttural question.

“ _Why?_ ”

The beautiful stranger made a bizarre, strangled sound and his hands shook as he pawed at the pen that was still protruding from the side of his neck. Blood was pouring out from around the writing utensil and it was obvious that he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do about it.

Damian put a hand out. “Don't pull it out,” he tried.

It was too late. He'd already removed it and it dropped to the blood-soaked carpet from his slippery palm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Damian whispered. He grabbed a wad of bedsheet and tried to get the assassin to hold it to his own neck but he was quickly going into shock and Damian couldn't seem to get him to follow any kind of direction.

Desperate, he dove for the hotel room phone and jammed his thumb into the buttons.

By the time his frantic call was answered, the killer was dead.

_“Hello? Is anyone there? This is 911, what is your location? Hello?”_

He was alone in a strange hotel room with a dead man. A man he'd killed. His free hand came up to his throat. He was covered in blood.

_“Hello? Please answer.”_

“Yes,” Damian said maybe a little too loudly. “I'm sorry. I uh...I need...I need...”

_“What is your location, sir?”_

“The uh...the...uh...Hampton. Oakwood. I...I can't...remember...the...”

_“What is your emergency, sir?”_

There was suddenly someone next to him and the phone was taken from his limp hand. He sat, dumbfounded as he heard a calm and authoritative voice speaking to the 911 operator. Fletcher was asking for an ambulance and the coroner and was telling the dispatcher who he was and what he wanted easily as if there wasn't a dead man within three feet of the both of them. As if his hands weren't covered in blood. As if he weren't entirely numb to his toes, sitting on the floor with his eyes locked onto the glazed dead stare of the overly pretty Omega who'd come to kill him.

He felt an overwhelming panic start to rise in his throat and he drew himself away from the fresh corpse, easing himself against the wall while his breaths started coming quicker and shallower. He couldn't feel his hands and didn't notice right away that he was holding them out in front of himself, shaking and red. The metallic stinging odor of blood had filled his senses and the reality of what he'd done crashed around him in a thousand unspoken words, falling from the ceiling like drops of corrosive acid, eating away at reality until there was nothing else to consume but him. His vision started to fade in from the sides and he had the sensation of falling backwards into the drywall.

Warmth brought him back, albeit slowly. Warmth and the ready spice of Fletcher's neck as his face was pushed against the detective's flesh, a strong hand cradling the back of his head while he was held tenderly and words were whispered into his ear. He vaguely understood that it, whatever _it_ was, was going to be okay. The notion was present in the words and touch he was experiencing in the detective's strong Alpha embrace. Calm washed over him, pulling away those acidic thoughts, drawing them back up into the ceiling where they melted away as he took deep breaths, pulling the Alpha into him through his nose. When he was fully back within himself, he let out loud, heavy sobs that cleansed him and began a blooming he didn't quite yet grasp.

He hadn't even realized he'd ripped his stitches until he was back in the hospital with the detective and the nurse had lifted up his shirt, revealing that a bit of the blood that had covered him was actually his and didn't belong to the killer Omega. When he was seated so he could have the sutures redone, he found Fletcher's eyes and blinked his tired red eyes, unsure. The Alpha simply gave him a gentle touch on his forehead, drawing the backs of his fingers down his cheek and pressing his wrist lightly over the side of Damian's throat.

He lifted his hand, gripping Fletcher's forearm and pressing his wrist firmly to his own neck, marking himself with the Alpha's penetrating scent. Saying nothing, he drew the wrist in question to his face and pushed his nose against it, inhaling their mingled fragrances in a pacifying motion meant to quell any of his anxieties. It was a success and he leaned back with a sigh, holding Fletcher's hand as he endured the rest of the night awake and in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally???


	9. Chapter 9

There was light streaming in through sheer white curtains and a dull hum marked the way the heat had kicked on from the old furnace in the basement. If it was quiet, like it was this morning, one could listen intently to hear some of the unique squeaks and squeals that the machinery made while it pumped hot air through the house. The breeze that was generated affected the curtains predictably, causing them to float as though a specter's hand rippled up from under them. Fletcher lay with his eyes half-closed, watching through his lashes the way the curtains floated with grace near the end of the bed. Bird song and chatter skittered through his half-awake brain and he adjusted the way his arm was wrapped around the dozing Omega beside him. The heaviness of the head on his shoulder was pleasant and he turned his head for the sole purpose of bringing his nose to McCoy's hair, sniffing him as if to make sure that their scents were still mingled. As if to make sure that McCoy was still _his_ , at least for the moment.

The Omega was in nothing but his underwear, pressed intimately against him while he lay in his t-shirt and boxers, half-hard and wondering how he had ever gotten to the point where he was fantasizing, dreaming, about sinking his teeth into one particular Omega. Up until this point, it had been one of those games he played to make each and every Omega he came across smiled in the hopes that he would have more and more chances to “help” them through their heats. He'd been invited by plenty and had even taken some of them up on it, rutting with abandon but without emotion, the protectiveness and affection he'd shown merely a part of his Alpha instinct and his submission to it. Here, McCoy challenged all of it. He was stronger, fiercer, and more possessive than any Omega he'd ever known and it had planted something in his heart.

There were no such things as coincidences. Finding the salty little writer drinking away his anxieties at the bar that night could have been nothing less than the grotesque and heedless hand of fate, guiding them toward a shared destiny—no matter how grueling or shocking the path may have been. The memory of McCoy curled against the hotel wall while he trembled and whimpered and stared toward the corpse of the man who'd tried to kill him was relentless, drawing Fletcher into a painful spiral of thought. He closed his eyes and breathed into McCoy's hair again, attempting to put the uncertainty of life aside for now.

It lasted only so long, until the writer stirred against him and opened his eyes, rubbing them with the heel of his palm until he opened them as wide as they would go before he closed them again, rubbing his face against the cotton of Fletcher's shirt. He groaned and snuggled closer, if it was possible. With slurred, sleepy words, he mumbled, “My stomach hurts.”

Fletcher murmured back, “I brought your pain killers back. They're on the table. You should take them with food. I'll make you breakfast whenever you want to get up.”

There was a long silence in which McCoy just laid on him, breathing in his scent and embracing him. He would have been embarrassed just a few days ago to think that he would feel something so deeply as to make him consider just _one_ Omega. To consider just the Omega that had caused Barry to almost have an aneurysm by the force of anger alone. But Barry hadn't mentioned the fact that the infuriating little shit smelled like paradise, looked like an angel, and had a devilish manner that shook him straight to his soul.

When McCoy spoke again, it was low, and it was a query. “Why?”

Fletcher tightened his arm around his Omega. “Why what?”

“Why were you at the hotel after...?”

He let a little chuckle escape him and he felt McCoy twist his head to look up at him. “It was stupid. I guess, it wasn't so stupid considering what I walked into, but it was really just dumb.”

“What was it?”

Fletcher let his fingers lazily move over McCoy's bare shoulder, enjoying the goosebumps rising on his flesh. “I wanted to see you. It was the middle of the goddamn night and I was like a dying man looking for water. I couldn't ignore it anymore.” He swallowed. “You've made it impossible for me to forget you. I...I craved your attention.”

“And you came to the hotel?”

“Yes.”

He realized it didn't make a lot of sense but it was all he had and it was the truth.

McCoy made a snort sniff. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Fletcher agreed.

“It's almost like it was...” McCoy trailed off, unwilling to complete the sentence. That was alright. After all, synchronistic moments weren't rare. They practically happened everyday. As cruel as fate often seemed to be, every so often, the stars aligned just right for something wonderful to happen.

“McCoy?”

“Damian.”

“Damian?” He snickered. “Have you been thinking about what I said the other morning?”

The Omega looked at him with a brow cocked.

“I'd still like to get to know you.”

The writer laughed and then yelped in his laughter, “Ah. Don't make me laugh. God, these stitches hurt worse than the old ones.” He was nearly breathless. “Yes. I...I would...like to get to know you, Fletch.”

“I hate that movie,” he whispered to the ceiling.

Damian couldn't help but laugh again. “Oh. My God, you suck.”

“Let me get you your pain pills,” he said, moving to get up. “I'll make you breakfast and you can stay in bed all day if you want. I'll make sure nobody bothers you.” He didn't want to be away from that warm body but his instincts were pulling him to take care of the wounded man in his bed, demanding that he be a gentleman and make breakfast to provide him with nutrients. He made eggs with peppers, onions, and sausage along with some toast and a large glass of milk, all of which he brought into the bedroom and arranged so that Damian could eat it. He took his own plate and wolfed it down easily while the Omega took his time.

Between bites, Damian made conversation.

“Do you think it'll ever fade?”

“What?” Fletcher asked.

“The desire to know. Why. Why he killed. There are so many questions that he can't answer for me now and it's all my fault.”

“He was choking you to death,” Fletcher reminded him.

“I didn't mean to kill him. I didn't want to. It just happened.” He shoved more food into his mouth. “I've never hurt anyone before. I know he was going to kill me if I hadn't but now...now what am I supposed to write about? We'll never know the truth.”

He shrugged, “There's nothing the curious public loves more than a mystery that's never solved.”

Fletcher watched Damian finish his breakfast and then broke the news that he was going to have to go into the office, no matter how high the snow. The writer insisted on going in order to get whatever pieces he could about the rest of the story. It was a compelling one, Fletcher thought, when they got to the office and everyone there congratulated him on a case closed. It wasn't a celebration by any means but always just a soft “hey, good work” that rose up his spirits despite the chill in the air and the cruel lakeside breeze. With Damian there, the office was curious and, since he'd spent so much time harassing Barry, some of them humorously chided him about closing his own case. He was just finishing up some paperwork while Damian perused his office bookshelf when Barry made an appearance in his doorway, sporting a heavy Ski-Doo sled coat and bulky snow pants.

“Fletcher,” he greeted, somewhat out of breath.

He laughed. “What did you do, Barry? Walk here from Hamburg?”

The retired detective managed a wheezing laugh. “The walk from the parking lot was enough, fuck this four billion tons of white _bullshit_.”

“Seven feet in East Aurora,” Fletcher mentioned off-handedly.

“The Southtowns always get their shit pushed in this time of year. Just wait until spring, Tonawanda will get what's comin'. How's the 400?”

Fletcher shrugged, scribbling down a few notes on the bottom of one of his pages of paperwork to fax. “Surprisingly clear. It's a good thing it wasn't earlier in the year like that one October storm we got.”

Barry made a low whistle and turned his gaze toward Damian. “What do you think of the snow, you little prick?”

Damian put the book in his hands back where it came on the shelf and sat himself down on the corner of Fletcher's desk, perched there with grace. “It's growing on me. In fact, I think the whole experience here has been entirely worthwhile and I'm considering a move.”

“From _Tampa_?!” Barry's eyes must have been as big as dinner plates while Fletcher chuckled heartily. “You know, boy, I thought you were out of your mind a few years ago and I can see time has _not_ helped in that regard. Why _anyone_ would think moving to this white northern waste from Tampa would be a good idea is beyond me.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Especially after an assassin comes after you here. I thought I knew what kind of crazy you were but you just keep on surprising.”

Fletcher put his cheek in his hand and stared at the Omega on his desk. “You know,” he began, drawing Damian's attention. “I could use a roommate.”

Barry started sputtering. “A-A roommate?! Fletcher, do-do you even...he's an _Omega_.”

Fletcher flashed an amused grin at the old guy in his doorway. “I know. I guess what I'm asking is whether or not he'd like to be _my_ Omega.”

Barry groaned, putting his face right into his heavy gloves. “That's it, fuck this place. Fuck this whole county. Fuck this whole state. If he's going to be up here, _I'm_ moving to Tampa. Good luck, you disturbed idiots. You deserve each other.” With that, he stormed off, trailing little pieces of compressed white snow as they fell from the folds in his coat and pants.

Fletcher eased his hand out until Damian gave him one of his. “You really thinking about moving to the 716? Or was that just to antagonize your nemesis?”

The writer laughed, throwing his head back and then gripping his stomach. He gritted his teeth against the pain and still managed to chuckle while he replied, “As much as that could have been the case, Detective, I'm seriously considering your offer.”

Fletcher leaned forward to kiss the sensitive thin flesh of Damian's knuckles. “It's not an offer. It's a plea.”

“Then I'll consider taking mercy on you.”

He would have to accept that as his answer. He drove the little Omega to the airport the next morning to catch a flight out. To his abject dismay, the flight was not canceled, the weather exceptionally clear and the sky exceptionally blue. He held Damian's hand as long as he could, both embarrassed by himself and his emotions while simultaneously submitting to them eagerly, allowing his heart to constrict while he tried to bring up the courage to say good-bye. When it was time to board, he grasped both of the writer's wrists and pressed them to each side of his neck, surprised when the Omega pushed forward and linked his fingers to pull Fletcher's face down for a chaste kiss.

“Don't forget about me, Detective.”

He wrapped his arms around _his_ Omega and kissed him again, softly. “Of course not.”

And with that, the writer was gone and Fletcher was left to himself, making his way out to his car while the lingering essence of the man he loved clung to his skin. Inside the small space, he sat with the heat blasting, his mind rolling through the events that had led him to this moment, letting the salty exquisite creature he loved, _loved_ , slip away into the blue.

Not without a small amount of humor, he rested his head against the top of the steering wheel and let out and little breath, a small plea into nothing.

“ _Fate don't fail me._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments, everyone who did comment. As we're almost to the end and I have a bad habit of waiting until the last chapter to give you love-smut, everyone knows what's coming (haha) next.
> 
> See you when the smut's written. Have a great day.


	10. Chapter 10

Damian thought he could have absolutely sobbed when he got out the taxi and saw the precious and fragile yellow buds on the cusp of blooming in Fletcher's front garden, patches of snow still melting around the flattened mulch in the beds. Daffodils. He couldn't believe it was spring already and with the promise of new life, there was a promise of something new for him too. Fletcher had told him to let himself in with the key from under the little galvanized watering can on the side of the porch, as he had to stay a little while at work. He found the little pot and the little key but as he held it in between his fingers, he gasped when the door opened in front of him.

“I apologize,” Fletcher said immediately, noticing the way he'd been startled. “I managed to make it home just a few minutes ago. How was your flight?”

He was speechless. Every word that had fallen out of Fletcher's mouth went in one of his ears and out the other one and he was overwhelmed by that beautiful Alpha scent that was purely Fletcher. Without responding, he practically dove forward, wrapping his arms around the detective and pulling him down to his lips.

Their kiss was electrifying. He fought the Alpha for hard control and won it, crushing their mouths together, his tongue brushing Fletcher's enough that he could feel when he groaned in contentment, his scent immediately gaining that delicious spicy arousal that made Damian yearn to push the larger man down on the floor and take him right then, with the door open and the spring air at his back. When he was gently eased back, he frowned, trying to push forward again.

“Hey, hey,” Fletcher murmured, “Your flight was that good, eh? You've been fantasizing about me, haven't you?” He guided them both, stepping backwards to keep Damian in his arms while he swung the door closed behind them. “You smell pre-heat. How long do I have?”

“They almost didn't let me on the plane,” Damian growled.

“That long, huh?” It was a good thing he sounded amused because if he hadn't been at least welcoming about it, Damian might have simply exploded right then. “Well then let's get you all situated before you ravish me. Maybe a bed would be useful.”

“I don't care where we are,” he whined, “I haven't seen you in months. I want to fuck you.”

Fletcher blinked. “I uh. Sure. Whatever you want.” The Alpha picked him up easily, bringing his legs around his hips and setting him up like a child. “Let's just grab a few things before I absolutely lose my mind, alright?”

Damian buried his face into the side of Fletcher's throat while a shudder passed through his body and he started sweating into his heavy winter coat. He was practically shivering by the time Fletcher had grabbed a couple bottles of water from the fridge and had brought him into the back bedroom, spreading him out on top of the comforter. The Alpha helped him to take off the bulk of his clothes and then stepped back to remove his own, his hard length putting a copious amount of saliva into Damian's mouth when he saw it.

He growled, struggling to get on his knees while he felt his heat come over him, his neck suddenly blazingly hot under his ears. “I wanna _fuc_ _k_ you.”

The detective's dark brows twitched downward for a moment, his pupils steadily expanding. “Are you very certain you don't want that the other way around?”

Damian's grin stretched across his face and he grabbed the end of Fletcher's length with a cloying hand, easing him forward onto the bed as if he were a siren easing a sailor to his death. “Do you like the way I smell, Fletch?” When Fletcher was on his knees on the bed, hissing inward through his teeth, Damian chuckled. “Do you wanna get fucked?”

Fletcher's eyes were suddenly pleading. He whispered coarsely, “I want whatever you'll let me have.” The detective's shoulders were trembling from his want when Damian's steady pull forced him down over the bedspread, his head on the pillows staring upward while the Omega straddled his wide shoulders. He laughed a little when a thin oozing line of slick eased out of Damian's body and dribbled over his chest, trickling in a line into the hollow of his collarbones and then down off the side of his neck. “I want you, Damian.”

He reached down, passing a gentle thumb over Fletcher's lips, coaxing them open until he felt cool hands on his hips, guiding him forward until that pretty, pretty mouth was over him, tugging and sucking while shuddering breaths and sweet moans felt from his lips, pleasure rippling through his loins, twitching in the healed muscles of his abdomen. He gripped the headboard hard, eagerly giving small thrusts with his hips into that wetness, fucking Fletcher's mouth while slick dripped out of him, coating the Alpha's chin and throat in a slippery sheen. Before he could release, he pulled himself away and shuffled backwards, pressing his length down over Fletcher's, grinding hard until he felt himself moan and a fresh gush of fluid coursed from his body, perfectly aimed to flow down over the Alpha's balls and through his cleft, leaving him shaken and ready.

“Oh my god,” Fletcher whispered upward while his hands gripped Damian's wrists hard. He didn't struggle when Damian adjusted himself to be between the Alpha's thighs, pressing downward with his hips until he was butting up against Fletcher's entrance, dragging up and down, smearing the excess slick up and then down his warm cleft.

His eyes met Fletcher's, wide and black and filled with an indescribable lust. The Omega spoke through gritted teeth, wrenching one of this hands from Fletcher's grip. “I'm gonna _fuc_ _k_ you, Alpha.” He shivered hard while he slid his fingers down to play with the tight hole in front of him, adoring the way Fletcher's breath hitched, random cuss words dropping from his wet lips, the pools of slick on his chest shining as he quivered from Damian's touch. He slid a finger in deep and Fletcher let out a soft surprised sound, his knees drawing upward and apart to allow Damian better access, his back bowing as if asking for more. The writer acquiesced, sliding in another finger and slowly drawing them upward until the detective squirmed and yelped in surprise. “Do you like that, Alpha?” Damian whispered. He didn't wait for an answer before he slid a third finger into his partner, impressed at the effectiveness of such a small amount of slick.

His heat wouldn't let him wait any longer. He withdrew his fingers and reached behind himself, coating his fingers in his own fluids before taking himself in his hand and pushing against Fletcher intimately. The Alpha raised his hips, tightening his hold on Damian's wrist, the pressure hard enough to hurt. The Omega blew out through pursed lips as he breached the barrier, sliding the whole of himself into his lover's body, the tightness incredible, the strength of his muscles sending Damian's head back, his throat bared while he reveled in every sensation. Fletcher looked like an angel beneath him, bigger and stronger, one hand gripping Damian's wrist while the other was buried in his own hair, pulling while he intermittently gritted his teeth and made soft breathy “hah” sounds while his lower jaw trembled. He looked positively _fuck_ _able_ and Damian moved his hips, slow at first and then creating a steady rhythm, slapping his hips against the place where Fletcher's thighs met his ass, pushing against him with every thrust. With his free hand, the writer touched him, taking his swelled cock in one hand, marveling at the weight of it while he stroked it and played with the pearl of precum at the slit.

“Fuh-fuck, Damian,” Fletcher begged, his hips grinding up to meet him thrust for thrust. It was obvious he'd never been fucked like this before and he was lapping it up, his breaths short and choppy while he drank in the unique pleasure of it. “Damian, I'm going to...I'm gonna...”

“Do it,” he whispered, his voice deep from his throat when he said his next words, “I want you to cum for me, Fletcher. Be my big cum-slut. I wanna be dripping out of your ass when you rail me.”

The Alpha was unprepared for that level of talk and he didn't even have time to respond before he was unloading ropes of thick cum over his stomach, a deep and throaty groan escaping him while his body coiled and released, multiple spasms surging through him until he stilled and sighed, looking up at Damian with something just short of amazement in his eyes.

He whispered downward, smug. “Did you like that, _Alpha_?”

Fletcher pulled on his arm until he slid out and moved to straddle the detective's hips. Damian guided the length of him until he felt the pressure and penetration. He slowly impaled himself, sliding down steadily, letting the thick rod explore the inside of him, reaching the depths of him as he sat heavily on top of Fletcher's swelling knot. Shifting his weight, he lifted himself and then eased back down. He did this tortuously slow movement a few times before he started to bounce, the detective pushing up with his hips to help him gain momentum. He rode Fletcher's cock until his body screamed for more and he pushed downward hard, pressing himself against the knot he wanted inside him more than he wanted anything else in the world right then. The Alpha took the hint, pressing upward while Damian let his weight do most of the work, bouncing and wriggling his hips until he could work himself down, stretching his hole until finally he felt the relief of having fully enveloped that coveted prize. While the knot increased in size, Fletcher bucked under him and his breath caught while he came, his cum spurting over Fletcher's already cum-soaked belly and chest.

The way his body clenched with its orgasm was too much for Fletcher who, again, came with hard convulsions and this time a sweet set of mewls. They breathed hard together, their chests heaving while Damian stared down at his lover, his heat sated at least for the time being.

Fletcher reached to the bedside table and grabbed one of the water bottles, handing one to Damian while he took the other one for himself, popping off the lid and sitting up to take a swig. “Drink that,” he panted to the writer. “You're going to be milking this dick for the next couple days and you've already sweat out half your water weight.”

He looked down, passing his fingers over his belly, wet with sweat. “Oh, shit.”

They were quiet for a minute while they drank some of the water, Fletcher's cock still trapped inside his body. While the detective's gaze was clouded, his eyes staring unseeing toward the window, Damian spoke.

“So uh...sorry?”

Fletcher looked at him. “Sorry for what?”

He shrugged. “I have a...tendency to be...demanding?”

“Oooooh.” The Alpha laughed, clearly tickled. “Listen, there's a reason I wanted to get to know you and now I know what I really got myself into. And, I gotta be honest...” He paused, chuckling. “I am _really_ digging it.”

The Omega smiled, leaning forward and kissing his lover with tender, close-mouthed chaste kisses that did nothing to betray the naughty words that had spilled out of those very lips just a few minutes ago. When he deepened the kisses, he found Fletcher holding him tight against him, his cock stirring to life again while he ground his hips up and down, clenching his ass over the knot still buried inside him. Just as he was getting into it, he was startled out of his sensual reverie by an intensely cold sensation spilling over his shoulders and back.

“Fletcher!”

The detective was laughing hard, having purposefully spilled his Aquafina down the back of Damian's neck. “You seemed hot. You didn't want my help?”

In retaliation, Damian arched his bottle, splashing Fletcher in the face while he laughed.

By the time he found himself flipped over on his hands and knees, the sheets were soaking wet, cold, and felt fantastic on his overheated flesh while the detective knelt behind him and pounded into him, jolting his body with undulating waves of pleasure and satisfaction. He was yelping and groaning with his face in a water-logged pillowcase, begging for Fletcher to rail him harder, to force that huge knot into his ass. When his request was fulfilled and Fletcher shoved the whole of his pulsing member inside his dripping hole, he came hard, surprised at the amount of semen he still possessed, spurting over the wet sheets.

They panted again together while he felt Fletcher's warm body curl over him, his lips against Damian's spine where his back met his neck. For a singular moment, just a passing flash of fantasy, he thought of how happy he could have been if he'd felt the detective's teeth sinking into his sensitive skin. He thought about asking but then didn't, unsure of how badly he wanted to feel if his request was denied. Next time, he resolved. Next heat, when they'd finally been living together for a while, he would ask. Maybe beforehand. So Fletcher wouldn't feel strange about it. That was the right thing to do.

“What are you thinking about?” Fletcher murmured, his hot breath forcing goosebumps to rise on Damian's arms and thighs.

“Just about how much I love you,” he whispered back.

“Uhn,” he groaned, swallowing, “You are going to destroy me, you know. First I'm your big cum-slut and now you love me. My god, I'm going to need a defibrillator to get through this week, aren't I?” He shifted, his cock twitching inside. His voice lowered, husky and quiet, “And I can't help it, McCoy, I love every moment. And I love you, too.”

Damian looked over his shoulder, flaring his nose to capture the scent of sex, Fletcher, and his own lusty heat. He caught his lover's eyes and he grinned hard, clenching and delighting in the way the action made Fletcher close his eyes and frown just so. “I'd like it if...if you'd consider bonding with me.”

Fletcher's eyes fluttered open.

“You know...maybe...in the future.” Even his heat couldn't compare to the way this made his cheeks flare. “When we've lived together for a while. When we're more used to each other. You know...”

“I'd be happy to make you mine, Damian. Whenever your heart says the time is right.”

He nodded, studying the Alpha's features and sniffing the air, finding no uncertainty in either. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then I suggest we let fate decide.”

“Alright,” Fletcher whispered, his smile in his voice. “Alright. We can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's that for these two. If you liked it, hated it, only read it for the smut, be sure to comment about what you liked or didn't like.
> 
> Probably going with a Victorian period piece next if anyone's interested in that. Gotta shake it up.
> 
> Thanks for reading; don't be a stranger.
> 
> Ciao.


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